


One O'Clock and the Wolf Don't Come

by akane42me



Category: Iko - Fandom, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fear, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: Something wicked this way comes...
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	One O'Clock and the Wolf Don't Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrua7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/gifts).



> Written for the 2020 Halloween Challenge 
> 
> A spooky little story for mrua7:) Happy Halloween!
> 
> The request: Something very surreal and spooky involving Illya and Napoleon. (Illya angst would be good) TV series, and Gen please.

The photo prompt:

_And night will be our darling_

_And fear will be our name._

– Richard Farina

Full moon. Its silver light shines on the riverfront, the wharf, the warehouse, and the four men in black. So brave, with their pistols drawn.

I breathe the malevolence of the first two men, drawing strength from their evil thoughts. They mean to kill the two men who are following them. What pleasure this gives me.

The other two are violent men as well. But they are merely hunting tonight. They intend to trap their would-be killers, whom they call Thrush. Such a puerile name. What tiresome ambitions.

I require violence and fear. I am no one, nothing. When the full moon shines I can be anyone, anything. Tonight, who shall I be? 

The first two men run up the wharf to the warehouse and duck around the corner in search of a hiding place. Their two pursuers halt at the corner. One of them takes a hasty peek and says, “Nothing. I hope we didn’t lose them, Napoleon.” 

Napoleon! Not so long ago, I knew a man with this name. Lively times, those wars. All that lovely pain.

“Stick to the wall,” Napoleon says. “I’m right behind you.”

They creep around the corner of the warehouse. Napoleon whispers, “One o’clock and the wolf don’t come.”

The other one turns and whispers, “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Something from a little night game.”

I know this game. A game played in the dark by children, walking slowly, one step at a time, chanting together, hearts hammering with fear, peering into the darkness, in search of a wolf.

Napoleon and the other one move past me where I hide in the shadows, so close I can touch them. I rise in the dark behind them. I am the Wolf.

“This is no time for games.” The other one scowls and takes several cautious steps forward.

_Play with me, Napoleon._

Napoleon takes one step and says softly, “Two o’clock and the wolf don’t come.” 

The other one turns on Napoleon and scolds, “Are you _trying_ to let them know where we are?”

Napoleon, surprised, chastened, says, “I’m sorry— I don’t know what got into me, Illya.” 

Illya! I know this name, too. From Russia. And Ukraine. Delightfully superstitious, these people.

“The full moon is what has gotten into you,” says Illya. “Hurry up. And be quiet.” He moves along the wall until he reaches the corner. 

Napoleon says, “Three o’clock and the wolf don’t come.”

Illya takes Napoleon by an arm and shakes him. 

“Wolf give a little howl,” says Napoleon, and for no reason at all, grins. His teeth flash white in the moonlight.

I give a little howl. 

Napoleon does not react. But Illya does; he has heard my little howl. I turn my gaze upon him. 

Unbidden fear washes over Illya. He stops in his tracks. Something is very wrong, he thinks, and remembers wisps of the old stories of evil spirits, unearthly beings. And something else, something buried deep—

Running in the dark, Mother whispering, shushing him. In the distance, a wolf howls. He thinks this must be what they are running from. Mother pushes him into the tangle of bushes behind the shed, pushing down on him until he is compacted into a ball, concealed by the brushwood. Mother runs back to the house, hurries inside.

A black automobile is at the house. A man in uniform pounds on the door. He has a rifle. The militsiya. Maybe he is here to shoot the wolf. Mother goes with the man.

He is afraid. He is alone. He cries. He creeps back to the house, to his bed. He climbs up onto it and kneels, looking out the window. Listening for the wolf. The wolf is outside—

_Play with me, Illya_. 

_I see your fear. So afraid, no matter how many times she shushes you and tells you it’s all right, her fear slips inside you, drying your mouth, freezing your blood. I see you watching out the window. Bloody footprints in the snow. Some human, some not._

“Napoleon. Listen,” Illya says.

Napoleon pauses, listens. “I don’t hear anything.”

I chuckle, a low, growl. It will be most entertaining to play with this one. His dread is old, familiar. It comes and goes, an unnerving visitor in the dark. He has built a shell to protect himself. I run a claw across his shell. He shudders.

Napoleon checks around the corner, gestures to Illya. There is a door, hanging open.

“In there,” says Napoleon. 

They enter the warehouse. Inside, it is foul-smelling, damp, moldy. Light from the full moon shines from a high window on the far wall. A long worktable stands against the wall beneath the window. Old wooden kegs are scattered throughout, some clustered, stacked high, enough to conceal a man or two.

I send a cold breath of rotten air behind them. Illya startles, runs a hand across the back of his neck. Napoleon has ducked behind a stack of kegs and is motioning to Illya to get down. 

From the shadows in the far corner, the two Thrush jump out and fire their weapons. The air fills with the sick-sweet alcohol-laden odor of rum; the Thrush bullets have shot holes in the kegs. Napoleon and Illya return fire, but the Thrush have ducked from sight. The kegs shielding the Thrushes are dotted with tiny darts with feather flights. 

They shoot their enemies with feathers! Where is the blood? Where is the pain? I grow angry.

_They will play my game!_

I breathe another cold breath. Napoleon and the two Thrush shimmer, then transform into antiquated figures in caped greatcoats of leather and oilcloth. They wear cocked and peaked hats, their faces covered by sinister-looking masks, their arms and legs protected by leather gauntlet gloves and bucket boots. They brandish flintlocks instead of pistols.

Bold marauders, from a time when this decaying warehouse was alive with greed and violence.

Illya can smell them; something from a hole in the ground, rot, mildew, sour dirt, decay. A hint at first, then stronger. Acid rises from his stomach. He swallows it back. He realizes he is unchanged. A surge of fear flows through him. Tiny purple and yellow stars threaten his vision.

I chuckle: low, hollow, bestial. Illya’s skin crawls at the sound. He tries to move but is transfixed.

They are performers on a stage oblivious to their transformation: Napoleon downstage, the two Thrush upstage, fighting a gun battle from long ago. The flintlocks fire again and again; somehow there is no need to re-load. The air fills with a sulfurous black gunpowder haze. Keg after keg bursts open in the hail of lead balls, and the rum flows everywhere. A Thrush man cries out and falls to the floor. An instant later, the second one joins him, unmoving.

Blood. Pain. In the sudden silence, I howl in pleasure. Illya covers his ears and drops to the floor, curls into a compact ball.

Napoleon goes to him. “Are you hit?” 

Illya rises unsteadily to his feet. “No.”

“Go outside for a minute. Clear your head,” says Napoleon. He goes to secure the Thrush men. Illya moves to the door.

I huff and puff. The door whips back and forth and slams shut. It shimmers, then disappears.

Illya shouts, “Napoleon! The door!”

Napoleon looks up from where he is kneeling, taking the Thrush men’s pistols and wallets. “What’s wrong?”

Illya waves an exasperated arm toward the blank wall. “Everything is wrong! This place, you— look at yourself! Your clothes, your gun! All of you— pirates! The wolf, the evil—"

“The rum fumes are getting to you. I told you to get some fresh air.” Napoleon turns back to his work on the Thrush men.

I whisper in Illya’s ear. _Let’s have some fun. Let’s have a riddle._

 _Look in the mirror._

Illya looks around. Above the table, the moonlight shines through the window high on the wall. The window shimmers and changes into a mirror. 

Like a sleepwalker, Illya goes to the table, climbs onto it, and looks in the mirror.

 _See what you saw_ , I whisper. 

“See what you saw,” says Illya, softly.

“What did you say? Illya! Come down from there,” says Napoleon.

Illya jumps down from the table. Napoleon has come up behind Illya and grabs him. “What are you doing?” Illya twists free of Napoleon’s grasp.

“Look in the mirror,” he says. 

“What mirror? Do you mean the window?” Napoleon is growing concerned. He climbs onto the table.

“See what you saw,” says Illya.

“What did you see? There’s nothing out there,” says Napoleon, jumping down.

_Take the saw._

Take the saw, says Illya.

“What saw? There’s nothing here!” says Napoleon.

Illya ignores him. A saw has appeared beneath the table. Illya reaches under the table, picks it up.

He stands there, thinking. 

_Saw the table._

“Saw the table,” says Illya.

Napoleon watches Illya’s empty hands moving back and forth across the table. He moves to stop Illya, then hesitates. “You’re hallucinating.”

 _Two halves,_ I whisper. _No more hints._

Illya saws through the tabletop. It falls apart. “Two halves,” he whispers. He stands there, unsure. He turns to Napoleon. “I can’t hear him. I don’t know what to do.”

“Who can’t you hear?” Napoleon asks, carefully.

“The Wolf. The riddle.”

Napoleon says, “Illya, tell me what you see right now.”

Illya looks at the sawn table. “Two halves. Two halves…”

Something stirs in a far corner of Napoleon’s memory. “Two halves make a whole,” he says, and wonders why he said it. “Walk through the hole and go home.”

I howl in rage at Napoleon. _How dare you interfere!_

Illya covers his ears. “Leave me alone,” he whispers.

Napoleon says, “I’m not going to leave you. You’re not alone. We’re going to walk through that door and—”

“There is no door. We can’t get out. The wolf—”

Napoleon takes Illya’s hands in his. “Illya. There is no wolf. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. There’s just me. You have to trust me.”

_My power weakens with every word Napoleon speaks._

Illya calms. The air shimmers again, and the door reappears. “The door. I can see the door,” he says.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Napoleon leads Illya through the door.

Outside, the air is fresh and clean. Illya takes a deep breath and watches the clouds pass across the man in the moon’s face.

Napoleon has his communicator out. “We’re going to guard the door until Security gets here. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“About that wolf…”

Illya shakes his head. “Not until I’ve had a couple of very large, very potent drinks.”

“We can go to my place. I’m not sure what I’ve got on hand, but—”

“Anything will be fine,” Illya says. “Anything but rum.”

The End


End file.
